


Cease Fire

by FightingForms



Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Aftercare, Blow Jobs, Bradford gives good aftercare, Caning, Developing Relationship, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Negotiating as They Go Along, Punishment, Spanking, coming without permission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-05
Updated: 2015-07-05
Packaged: 2018-04-07 20:54:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4277583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FightingForms/pseuds/FightingForms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for prompt: "Every time they're together, Bradford explicitly orders Ben not to come until given permission. And he's very good about obeying. But this time, it's just too intense, and he can't control himself. Bradford has to punish him for his disobedience."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cease Fire

They’d fought their way into this, grappling on the ground and throwing punches before they reached an unspoken cease-fire upon realizing the pleasure that rubbing their cocks together could bring. The power struggle didn’t end with the punches, though, and they rubbed and bit and rolled until Bradford wound up on top with his arm pressed across Tallmadge’s throat and ordered him not to come until he said so. Bradford was more experienced and could make it explosive for both of them. Damn it, Tallmadge would obey him in that if nothing else. 

Tallmadge had expressed indignation, mouth screwed up in fury, but his eyes had gone wide and dark. He’d listened. No, he’d _obeyed_. 

Over time they’d moved from the ground to the camp bed, had gone from shouting at one another to having more or less civilized conversations, sometimes even over port. But one thing never changed: Bradford always ordered Ben not to come without permission, and Ben always obeyed, no matter how difficult Bradford made it for him. 

They had never really discussed the consequences should Ben fail; they both knew there would be consequences, only that side of their relationship felt as fragile as a man’s life on the front lines. Neither man felt that they could broach the subject outside of the time they spent in bed for fear their arrangement would dissolve into awkwardness and misunderstandings at best and disavowal and laughter at worst. 

And in bed? There had been no reason to raise the subject beyond a quick smack to Ben’s bottom when he was cheeky. 

So when Ben did come without permission, tightening deliciously, if early, on Bradford’s cock, they were operating without a map. 

Bradford wished he could see Ben’s face, but it was currently buried in the bedclothes, most likely being rubbed raw by the horsehair blanket. Bradford settled for clutching Ben’s shoulders through it, gripping and releasing them in time with the clenches he felt around his cock. 

Ben was strangely silent when he finished; Bradford had expected either a sheepish apology or a cheeky shrug and got neither. He frowned, smacking the firm backside he was buried in rather smartly and got a yip as well as a tight clench in response. It was enough to finish him.

When Bradford felt capable of moving, he withdrew gently from Ben and pulled him up so that his cheek rested on his chest. Ben made a face at having been deposited on Bradford’s chest hair and wriggled so that he could rest on Bradford’s shoulder instead. 

Bradford huffed, but smoothed Ben’s loose hair back so it wouldn’t tickle either of them. Ah. Well, Ben’s face was looking a trifle red from having been rubbed by the blanket. No wonder he didn’t want to rest on coarse hair.

Bradford trailed his fingers along Ben’s back, feeling both their heart rates slow and their breathing starting to soften into sleep. That wouldn’t do. Ben needed punishing and supper, though not necessarily in that order. 

“You know you need to be punished,” Bradford said, but softly, not yet wanting to break their post-coital spell with a harsh command.

Ben’s nose nudged him as he nodded into his shoulder without opening his eyes. “I know,” he whispered, the warmth of his breath making Bradford’s nipples perk. “I’m sorry.” 

Christ, he did sound sorry (and sleepy), and he’d burrowed further into Bradford. Bradford put his arms around him reflexively, clasping them at Ben’s low back, anchoring them both. 

Well. Ben wasn’t storming out of the tent in his all-together in outrage at the idea of being punished, which was good. But now Bradford would need to come up with something appropriate, which was bad. It was hard to gauge how Ben felt and how harsh he should be. 

Too soft and they’d likely be done with one another or back to grappling on the ground. Too harsh…well, he was surprised to find that he couldn’t imagine being too harsh with Ben. He’d break the man’s nose in a fight if he had to, but here, with what they were doing now…he never wanted to see hurt mingled with disappointment on that face. 

He could let Ben choose, since he did have a selection of implements in his valise. He’d been too embarrassed at the prospect of his family discovering them should he leave them behind (he could see the letters now: “Did you host a party of schoolmasters, William? I can’t see why else you would have so many tools of discipline”), so he had packed his tawse, his paddle, and his flogger and taken them with him when he’d gone to war. Letting Ben choose might indicate what he wanted as well as what he could take at this moment. 

He kissed Ben’s forehead, heart pounding though his voice remained level. “I need you to select something from the valise for me to punish you with.”

Ben blinked up at him, biting his lip.

Bradford wanted to kiss him, but settled for reassuring him with, “You’re a good boy who has made one mistake. That’s why I’m letting you choose.”

He gave Ben a squeeze, then let him go, half expecting (and possibly half hoping) that Ben would reach for his cock and ask to be punished with it instead, or that he’d take Bradford’s hand and launch himself over his knee, saucy bum wriggle and all.

But Ben had walked to the valise like a man walking to the gallows, and had come back bearing a cane, holding it in both hands like he was about to serve Bradford from a platter.

Ben wouldn’t meet his eyes as he knelt, offering the cane, which was good, because Bradford wasn’t certain he had successfully kept the dismay off of his face. As beautiful as Ben looked naked, kneeling, and offering him an implement of correction, acknowledging his authority and submitting to it (at least here), Bradford felt a heaviness from his heart to his stomach that prevented his cock from taking much of an interest in the scene. 

He had meant to slip the cane into the Delaware and had forgotten it was there, waiting at the bottom of his bag to strike. It was heavy, one he had purchased before he’d had enough experience to know that it wasn’t suitable for anything but the strictest punishment. It wasn’t nearly as bad as a military flogger, but still. He didn’t know whether he was more upset by Ben’s apparent belief that he was that angry with him or how miserable Ben appeared to be at his own failure. 

He wouldn’t break the atmosphere, but would try to lighten it a little and possibly convince Ben to let him go a little easier. 

Bradford took the cane, the weight of it settling in his hands, then placed it at the foot of the bed and ordered Ben to rise.

“The cane. A very interesting choice,” he said, raising his brow theatrically. “A very _English_ choice.” 

Ben’s brows were raised. Very rarely could Bradford say anything to make him raise both of them. But he said nothing, clearly waiting for this lunacy to pass. At least he no longer looked as though he were about to be deservedly executed. Now, if Bradford could get him to open his mouth in surprise...

“I’d go as far as to say that your choosing this very English cane is enough to place you under suspicion for treason. I’ve a mind to see General Washington about this.”

Ben’s mouth did gape a little, then, before his lips twisted in a quickly suppressed smile. “You want to tell General Washington that you suspect me of treason because I chose to be punished with a cane for achieving orgasm without permission?”

“Yes,” Bradford said, trying not to laugh at the image of the General’s face were he to say any such thing—it wouldn’t do to add too much levity to the mood—“I think it’s one of the best ideas I’ve ever had.”

“You’re not wrong. Sir,” Ben said. And there he was, spark back in his eyes, insolent as ever. 

“Oh, Tallmadge, Tallmadge, Tallmadge. Here I was going to make sure you weren’t going to squirm too obviously through the officers’ supper. Now, though…well, I’m sure you’ll prefer to dine lying down on your stomach when I’m through with you.”

Ben bit his lip at this teasing, but raised a brow, contrite and anticipating punishment, yet still challenging him a little. Good.

“Are you sure I can’t interest you in a patriotic implement? American wood? My hand?”

Ben smiled, but shook his head, serious once more, though not in the way that had worried Bradford. “Thank you—I mean it, thank you,” he said, when Bradford moved to speak. “I know it will hurt, but I need to feel it. I let you down, and I let myself down. This will remind me the next time, make me more careful. I let my control slip, and I can’t—here or, God forbid, out there.”

Bradford nodded slowly. Now that he could understand. He shouldn’t have been surprised that Ben should feel that way, but he’d get him through it. And now he knew how much Ben wanted as well as how much he needed, though he was going to make absolutely sure that if he was going to use this thing, Ben could stop him if need be.

“Well then,” he said, picking up the cane, watching Ben’s eyes follow it, “we’ll get started in a moment. Before we do, give me a word to use to stop, when it hurts so much you feel you can’t take any more.”

Ben looked confused. “I thought taking it past what you’re comfortable with was the purpose of punishment?”

Oh, this man was going to be the death of him. Bradford had never met someone he wanted to hug and throttle at the same time. He felt the weight of the trust Ben had placed in him settle on his shoulders and spread like a mantle over his heart. 

“It won’t be enjoyable, Ben, for either of us, but there is a difference between ‘painful and unpleasant’ and ‘unbearable.’ If it starts to feel as though I’ve dipped you in boiling oil, or you just feel it’s all too much, you must call out a word.”

Ben nodded, looking as though he’d sooner sing “Rule Britannia” than utter a word indicating that he had had enough. 

Bradford sighed. “Ben. Give me a word and promise me that you’ll use it if you need to. I won’t let you use me to torture yourself.”

“Setauket,” Ben said immediately. “And I promise.”

Bradford grinned internally, glad he knew Ben well enough to know that his sense of decency meant never using others as tools if he could prevent it. 

“Thank you. Now bend over the bed, elbows down, bottom up,” he said, giving the cane a practice swipe.

With one more look between Bradford and the cane, Ben bent over, turning his bottom up and over to Bradford in a way that made his mouth go dry.  
There were still signs of his seed down Ben’s thighs—they had not troubled to clean themselves. And now he was going to mark that bottom as his in a new way. 

He stepped to the left, tapping Ben’s bottom to line up the stroke, then raised his arm and swung, not nearly as hard as he could have, to be sure, but hard enough that a weal appeared, red and raised, seconds after the stroke had been delivered, the crack of the cane sounding startlingly like gunfire.

It was the only sound in the room. Ben, having agreed to take a word in case he needed out, seemed resolved to take this with as little sound as possible. And Bradford had neglected to order him to tie his hair back so that he could see his face. It hung in a curtain around him, giving him a a measure of privacy during his punishment. 

Bradford gave him five more, thoroughly striping Ben’s bottom in a way he would not soon be able to forget. Ben raised to his tiptoes for a few of the strokes before returning to position and offering his ass as a target again, but that was the only indication of effect Bradford had been able to observe, bar Ben’s clenched hands.

When it was over, he dropped the cane, letting it clatter to the floor as he crawled into the narrow camp bed once more, once again drawing Ben out of the blankets and into his arms. 

“You took that so well,” he murmured, stroking Ben’s hair out of his face before gently wiping the lip Ben had bitten bloody during his punishment. “I’m so proud of you. You’re always my good boy, even when you make a mistake, even while I’m punishing you.”

Ben, blushing and looking a bit starry eyed, as though he’d already been at the port, attempted to duck away from Bradford, either disbelieving him or feeling uncomfortable with the words being spoken. Or both.

Bradford wasn’t having it. Taking Ben’s chin in his hands, he said “That’s the most important thing, Ben, and I’ll have you trust me on that if nothing else.”

Ben studied him intently for so long that Bradford was almost tempted to look away himself, but he held firm. He meant it, and the infuriating bastard could read it in him for as long as he wanted to.

At last, Ben said “Yes, sir,” and relaxed against Bradford, straddling his lap and wrapping around him as though he were a human blanket. Bradford was, he explained, more comfortable than the horse hair, which would be too rough on his bottom were it to be tucked around him. 

They rested together for a time, Bradford lazily stroking Ben’s hair, reveling in its softness, in the warm weight of Ben settled on him. He couldn’t quite believe that Ben was his. To fuck. To punish. To protect. To cherish. And yet there he was, well-fucked, well-striped, and well aware of how much Bradford cared for him. 

Eventually, their stomachs growled in tandem and Bradford made good on his promise to have Ben eating supper on his stomach in the tent; when Ben had tried to go, wincing as he put on his breeches, Bradford had pulled them down again, running an admiring (though gentle) hand over the swell of his bottom and ordering him to get back in bed. He’d then cleaned Ben up and rubbed ointment on him before rushing out to the supper, returning with a flagon of port and a plate of chicken and biscuits. 

He’d insisted on feeding Ben, tearing the still-steaming biscuits with his fingers and scooping up tender morsels of chicken in gravy to pop into Ben’s mouth, spine tingling with pleasure as Ben licked his fingers clean. 

“What’s next?” Ben asked, lips plump and red (Bradford had not been able to resist kissing between bites). “You’ve held me, washed me, put healing ointment on me and fed me. You’re not—you’re not going to sing me to sleep, are you?” he asked, looking as though he would endure this horror if he must, even if only to avoid putting his breeches on and leaving. 

“I am, actually,” Bradford said, delighting in teasing the poor boy. “But only in a manner of speaking.”

He rolled Ben onto his side, stroked him to hardness firmly and quickly, then wriggled into position, cursing the camp bed all the while. “Wait until I give you permission this time, yes?” 

Ben nodded solemnly, eyes bright, then tilted his head back, eyes closed when Bradford swallowed him whole. He almost came when Bradford started humming “Spanish Ladies,” the vibrations being almost too cruel a test to give him after the day they had had. And yet he passed with flying colors, coming at Bradford’s signal at the close of the song. 

They’d both passed, Bradford thought as he drifted off to sleep, Ben tucked into his side.


End file.
